The Search for Peace
by Becky215
Summary: With an afternoon to herself, Margaret considers her life, Mr. Thornton, and the Milton sky.


_Disclaimer_: No copyright infringement is intended.

**The Search for Peace**

**By Becky215**

The house was quiet as twilight poured over Milton, but Margaret was happy to have had an afternoon to keep to herself beside the fire. Her father's departure to Oxford had left a sense of emptiness in the small rooms at Crampton, but again his daughter consoled herself with the knowledge that a visit with Mr. Bell would lift his spirits. It seemed that the ghosts and shadows of the past were clinging to their thoughts; worries of Frederick and tears for her departed mother weighed heavily on Margaret's heart, but the warmth of the fire comforted her on such a chilly afternoon.

She'd found her father's copy of _Utopia_ and looked forward to the distraction of Thomas More's philosophy, but for a moment she wondered again if there could be such a perfect society. Her days in Milton seemed to be perfumed with pain and confusion; she thought of Mr. Thornton at the train station, the naked shock and fury that passed through his eyes, and she thought again of her mother's funeral. Agonies of the heart seemed as common in Milton as the smoke that hung over the factories, but she knew that she should not be so melancholy. Her father had encouraged her to embrace these few days of solitude and to find peace in the silence. With Dixon out for the afternoon at the market, Margaret knew that she should heed her father's words and take comfort in the book she had loved so much as a girl.

She opened the book and let her eyes fall upon a page at random, but suddenly it seemed as though the author was speaking to her with the intimacy of a long-standing friend. She flushed as she skimmed across the page to find a familiar passage that made her ache for all that was lost.

_And soon, too soon, we part with pain, to sail o'er silent seas again…_

She thought of her mother, alone in the grave with a quiet sentry of rose petals standing guard over her in the night. Again Margaret wondered about the stories that had never been shared, and her heart ached to think of the gentle confidences her mother would never impart in the future. The thought of pain resurrected the memory of her father's eyes at the funeral, the stillness of loss and sorrow that caused her to avert her gaze in shame. She was guilty for wondering if she should ever experience a love so deep and true, such emotion that the gentle memory of a lover's smile should coax a tear to one's eye. She'd blushed to think such thoughts on the day of her mother's funeral, but the notion followed her in all the days after.

She turned back to her book, desperate for another course of thought. She paged through the chapters and settled upon a new section of the familiar text.

_The heart that has truly loved never forgets, but just as truly loves on to the close._

The words arrested her, and without pause for another thought or consideration, she imagined that he stood before her. Her imagination took in all that she could remember: the fiery flush in his cheek as he bore her rejection, the tall, proud force of his gaze as her vicious words struck his soul. She looked beyond that and remembered the evening when they'd dined at his house, the soft sweep of his eyes across her face as he reached for her hand and cradled it in his own. She feasted on her memories with a hunger that she could not understand; she waded into the blue depths of his eyes and recalled with trembling fingers how he had once murmured her name with the hope of a man desperate to see a smile. He'd loved her, and she had turned her back on him. Regret was bitter and cruel, and it only left her wanting and wishing for everything that she had tossed away.

She was not surprised that his image should haunt her thoughts; he seemed to have taken residence in her heart, turning her thoughts and making her desperate for something which she could not have. She turned to the book again and felt the mingling of fear and hope in the author's words; she wanted to believe that Mr. Thornton would hold true to his promise, that he loved and would love for all the days of his life and that he would never forget his defiant, bold declaration of love. She clung to the memory of that painful afternoon when she'd scorned his love, but she feared that the shadows passing between them would destroy that promise. She pressed the book to her breast and wished that truth had spilled from Thomas More's quill all those years ago; she wanted to believe that the heart could never forget, that it was too strong to be destroyed by the whispered threat of half-truths and secrecy.

She dwelled on Mr. Thornton for a moment longer, closing her eyes as the warmth of the fire summoned the memory of his body pressed so close to hers on the day of the riot. The memory created a new rhythm in her heartbeat. She forgot the noise of the mob and rioters; she remembered his touch and the tender words he had whispered in her ear. It had happened so quickly, like a flash of lightning in a thunderstorm, but it seemed that her body had recorded each moment in intricate detail. She could almost feel the lapel of his suit coat pressed against her cheek, the firm weight of his hands on her waist and then her arms as he tried to break free. With her eyes closed, she could remember the bittersweet scent of his skin, a curious mix of springtime, sweat, and smoke.

In that empty, solitary moment, he was with her, and they belonged to each other. She could tell him secrets and imagine his response, his measured tones and startled eyes as she revealed the truth to him in intimate honesty. She could reach into the dark recesses of her memory and visit the words he'd whispered on that day, that no one could tell what she meant to him, that she was the only woman he'd ever loved. For some time, she'd wondered if the words had ever been spoken at all, if they were only the muddled product of a girl and her dreams, but the look in his eyes on that afternoon had assured her of reality.

The book slipped from her hand, startling her back to the moment and the sudden emptiness of the sitting room. The apparition was gone, her tea was cold, and the book was perched near the ashes of the fire, its pages spread to reveal another familiar passage.

_No, there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream_.

She was tempted to laugh, but she did not. Her love was sure and strong, but in the grey shadows of a lonely afternoon, she doubted that it was sweet.

She abandoned the book and walked to the window, throwing open the curtains so she might see Milton in the afternoon sunlight. She smiled ruefully to herself as her fingers ached for a sketching pencil. For as long as she could remember, she would have always used bruised shades of blue and grey to express the Milton sunset on a sheet of paper. Now it seemed that everything had changed. Her gaze sailed across the horizon, and she was reminded of fire. She looked beyond the ashen clouds and saw the bold, fiery fingers of sunlight that peered through the veil of shadows. She saw the shades of scarlet and amber that winked through the smoky haze of the evening. The sun was alive as it cradled Milton in its arms, and suddenly Margaret wondered how blue, cerulean, lavender, and black could have ever been used to capture such a scene.

The room felt small and confining, and in a moment's haste she turned and hurried up the stairs to her bedchamber. She heard the muted sound of Dixon's footsteps down the corridor as she shook off the winter chill upon her return, but Margaret closed the door and reached into her wardrobe for the very item that had drawn her away to her room.

It was a small wooden chest, scented in rose oil and colored by the passage of time. She'd fallen upon it as a girl when one of her father's parishioners offered it to her as a Christmas token. She'd kept it with her through the years, tucking away the slight treasures that had no value beyond their measure in her heart. Opening the lid unveiled the prizes of a girl and the secrets of a woman. She found the pressed white orchid that her mother had given her upon her departure to live with Aunt Shaw in London; she discovered the ribbon-bound letters she'd received from her father while she was away. She fingered the tiny toy soldier she'd stolen from Frederick's play things when they were children, and she doted on the simple comb she'd received for her eighteenth birthday.

She placed these trinkets on the bedspread, lifting them out of the chest with care and a smile. She worked quickly, for her fingers knew what they might find in the end. The soft caress of worn leather brushed against her fingertips, and the intricate stitching attracted her eye as she turned a glove over in her hand. The cracked leather was tender and smooth from use, and again her thoughts wandered back to the afternoon when he'd abandoned them on the table. She remembered how he'd stood before her, chasing her away from every convention she'd ever clung to with such wild, honest declarations of love. She'd seen into his heart that day, and she'd turned away to cling to her prejudice from the fear of her own emotions.

She brushed her fingers along the palm of the glove, and she chose that moment to forget the bitter words that had passed between them. The heat of those remembered tears stoked the fire in her heart as she remembered the fine curve of his lips and the truth in his words. She thought of every time she'd skirted an opinion or belief to couch her thoughts in passive, gentle phrasing. The raw emotion behind his words left her shocked and touched with a fire in her veins that she could not ignore.

She curled her fingers around those simple black gloves, and she imagined what it might be like to hold his hand. The bold Milton habit of shaking hands was only an interlude, she imagined, to what it would be like to stand beside him and count him as her own. She shut her eyes and tried to picture such a moment, how her tender skin might glide against the rough skin of his palm, how fingertips might feel and explore with the laziness and freedom of a lover's touch. How safe she might feel with his large hands holding her smaller ones, how comforting it would be to experience the warmth of his touch on a cold day such as this.

She knew that daydreams whiled away her day and that her heart was exhausted with games of make-believe. Margaret accepted her truth, that Mr. Thornton had likely forgotten all about her and that she deserved his rebuke. She prayed that the old sayings were true, that girls hardly know their own hearts and that the tempests of first romances fade to reveal the sunshine of a new dawn.

She had those thoughts, but for the first time, she hoped that her prayer would not be answered. Folding the glove into the palm of her hand, she looked out to the horizon that was kissed in pink and bathed in gold, and she wished that the clouds would break so she might see a sky so blue and so clear as to remind her of Mr. Thornton's deep, thoughtful gaze.

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Hope you guys enjoyed; I took a few liberties with Sir Thomas More's philosophy. The quotes contained in this story are not only from _Utopia_ but also his other words. Thanks for reading! -CH


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